Ladies in waiting

Ladies in Waiting
by
Ruth Lampert
Copyright Ruth Lampert 2008

Anyone who says it's hard to make friends in Los Angeles has never stood in line to the Ladies Room during an intermission and experienced the intense female bonding which ensues. . For those anatomically prevented from bring privy to this activity (males) – here is how it goes: You remain in your seat in the theater until the applause has subsided, and then clamber up, down, across, or over toward your destination, utilizing all deliberate speed without, you hope, appearing frantic.


Your heart sinks as you approach the foyer and see ten ladies queued up. In the foyer, for God's sake! How many women are in line inside? How many stalls are there? The answer to the first question is "far too many;" to the second, "far too few."


Now the bonding ritual starts, with the standard opening:
"If women designed these buildings, there'd be twice as many stalls in the Ladies Room," followed by: "There'd be twice as many Ladies Rooms!" Heads nod knowingly, affirmatively.


Stage two begins when someone – perhaps you - asks, "So, what
do you think about the play/concert/lecture so far?”


Here the potential or lack of it, for deeper relationships emerges. There are those in that line who simply don't get it, and while they may be nice enough in their own way you know they are not persons you really care to cultivate. There are others who show promise of aesthetic compatibility. You make eye contact with a lady who appears, by her bearing, to be a person of breeding and good taste. If she responds with a quote from your favorite critic, you know you have made a connection.


But nothing promotes bonding like having a common enemy. At the sound of the chimes signaling only five minutes more of intermission, a chorus of anguished, outraged voices is raised.


"What? It will take at least 10 minutes for all of us to get out of here!"
"They're just trying to intimidate us; they wouldn't dare begin with this many still in line!"


"By God, I'm going to write to the management!"
"I'll e-mail my congresswoman!"
And so on and so forth.


Now critical analyses of the first half of the performance evolve to deeper intimacy with the sharing of urological experiences involving pregnancy, bladder surgery, and the efficacy of cranberry juice.


There have been poignant moments too. After having the same concert seats for many seasons, last year we sent our order in late and were assigned to a different location. We were not the only ones unsettled by this dislocation; in the line to the Ladies Room I met the woman who had been my former seat neighbor.
"Oh, I'm so happy to see you!" she cried, "we thought something must have happened to you folks. Is your husband alright?"


Had there not been a line, she might be worrying still.
Men typically don't experience either this tortuous waiting or cozy camaraderie. I do recall a concert a while back of big band music from the 40's, where to my surprise my husband's pit stop was longer than mine. As I waited for him (a first in this situation) I noticed that most of the men had gray or white hair, if any. They were all over 60. That explained it. I don't know if any friendships were formed, but what a networking opportunity for a urologist.


Actually the Ladies Room line was professionally useful to me too. When discussing psychological aspects of a play, for example, it sometimes leaked out (no pun intended) that I was a professional psychotherapist, and those who shared my viewpoint sometimes asked for a business card. I did not receive any direct responses to this kind of outreach, but I did once receive a call from a prospective client who said, "I found your business card on top of the tissue holder in the Ladies Room at the Music Center. I was impressed with your marketing ingenuity and thought you might help me deal with some of my frustrations starting a new business.

And besides, a therapist who goes to the opera is a therapist I can relate to."


Doesn't it seem that would have made the cost of the tickets tax-deductible? My accountant said "don't even think about it."

Job Chutzpah

Job Chutzpah

by

Ruth Lampert

Copyright July 2010

In the unlikely event that there are some among you some who do not know the meaning of “chutzpah,” it is defined on the web as a Yiddish word meaning “unbelievable gall; audacity; insolence.”

I first became aware of this smarmy trait in myself back in the day when I was applying for a job in Tucson, Arizona, where I had recently arrived with my then-husband and my then-and-now children.

It was to be my second job in Tucson. I had left my first, as Secretary to the President of the University of Arizona, under false pretenses. But then, the job title was itself somewhat false and pretentious..

I had climbed up the University career ladder in only a few short weeks from a menial, boring clerical job in which I had earned the disdain and dislike of my co-workers by finishing all my assignments in about one third of the allotted time. This was less a reflection of the excellence of my work than of the prevailing job ethos which seemed to be: “Least accomplished, least demanded.”

I was promoted to the large cadre of Secretaries to the President, where, as but one of many workers, I had almost nothing to do. (It did not occur to me then, as it does now, to wonder how much the President himself had to do) I discussed my situation with the Head Secretary, (and how busy was she, really? Did her undoubtedly generous salary reflect the illusion that she supervised many hard-working underlings?) In any case she said, in what I am sure were meant to be reassuring tones, “don’t worry about it dear, we know you’re here if we need you, and that’s what counts.”

Well fine. I was bored out of my skull. In desperation I read through all the confidential files of all the professors, and they were pretty boring too. So much for blackmail as an adjunct profession. I secretly read books smuggled in from home. I tried to do some writing but I was so uninspired I couldn’t think of anything to write about except how un-inspired I was, and that didn’t stretch very far. (Not then it didn’t. The reader has probably noted that over time my ability to stretch material has increased markedly.)

Finally, I activated the defense which had served me well in the past, and would again in the future: I became sick. I went to our friendly family doctor. He could find nothing physically wrong, and said, with a perfectly straight face, “probably it’s stress; your job must be very demanding.” Did he know? Had he treated others before me with the same syndrome? In any case I apparently qualified for a generous sick-leave, during which, for some reason, I was not at all bored.

But we were financially strapped, so when my leave ended I resigned the University job and signed up with an employment agency, where I learned of an opening for Secretary/Registrar at the Tucson Art Center.

Now that was a job I wanted. The site was a renovated small family home near downtown Tucson. The milieu was comfortable, and artistic in a creative but not “artsy” way. The Director, Frank Sanguinetti, and I hit it off immediately. It was all but a done deal when he asked, or rather commented off-handedly, “You take shorthand, of course.”

Oooops. Now this was before dictating and recording devices had come upon the office scene. Shorthand was the skill that set secretaries apart from lowly stenographers,( although it not been a requirement for the Secretary to the President gig.)

So I did what had to be done. I lied.

“Yes of course…uh…that is, “I haven’t actually taken it for a while, so I am kind of rusty,” I improvised. “It will take me a few weeks to brush up.” “Will three weeks be enough time?’ he asked. (Did he know?) “Oh certainly “’ I replied. That concluded the interview, and I dashed over to the nearest bookstore where I bought an instruction manual in Gregg shorthand. In three weeks I had taught myself enough to get by. “It’s coming back to me, but kind of slowly” I explained to Frank with a straight face. He appeared to believe me.

Thus began my career as Secretary/Registrar.

The job didn’t just live up to my expectations, it exceeded them. In addition to the usual secretarial tasks of answering the phone and taking dictation (ha ha) I learned simple bookkeeping from the wonderful, now long-departed Mr. Alfred Panofsky, helped mount shows in the small museum portion of the “Center” and even learned a little art history.

I remained there until we moved from Tucson back to the Los Angeles area, where I found myself again in the position of lying about my qualifications, but this time by denial, not exaggeration. I had learned to type in high school and was very good at it; for some reason the skill was in something of a decline. I soon found that at this time no matter what job I applied for, if the prospective employer discovered I could type, that was it, I was hired – as a typist. I didn’t want to be a typist. Oh how I did not want to be a typist. (I think I once wrote a piece called “I’m In A Typing Pool and Sinking Fast” but perhaps I read that somewhere. Please note that plagiarism is not among my smarmy qualities.)

So whenever I was asked “can you type?” I said I could not, and I did not offer to learn. A sin of omission.

There is a lot more drama (or tedium) to the saga of how I finally became a licensed Marriage and Family/ Gestalt therapist, and though it did take some chutzpah to get there, ethics and integrity in the work itself were never compromised. And that is the truth. I retired as a therapist a year ago, and, obviously, continue to write. Usually truthfully.

So you see, boys and girls….oh the hell with it, draw your own moral to the story.

Corn Flake Cure

THE RETURN OF THE BLOG

In response to the vast --well, maybe not exactly "vast," more like "many," well, let's say ""few" -- numbers of faithful readers who have written me to ask "WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO YOUR BLOG ?" herewith:

THE CORN FLAKE CURE
copyright Ruth Lampert 10-08

There must be 150 varieties of cold cereal in the market, and although I virtuously choose the crunchy high fiber ones held to be “heart healthy,” there will always be a special place in my heart for plain old corn flakes, the grain of tender memory.

I was about eight years old when I came down with whooping cough, that nasty, now virtually vanquished, childhood disease. I have forgotten most of the miserable ness of it, except for how whooping, and hacking, and incessant, and exhausting the cough was. What I remember is my father, and the loving part he, and corn flakes, played in my recuperation.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was wrapped in that delicious euphoria that comes with feeling better. Not yet completely well – still weak, still pampered. Mother, Bob, and Cine were out somewhere, and Daddy stayed home with me.

Just the two of us! How rare a treat! No need to share his special presence, his scent of shaving lotion and cigars, his gentle jokes. The apartment was warm and cozy. We listened to the radio - I don’t remember what was on - all the really good shows, like Jack Benny, Rudee Valley, and Major Bowes Amateur Hour came on in the evening – and after awhile he said
“Snack time! Doctor Daddy’s orders for the patient!”.
I still had no appetite, but it sounded like fun anyway. Declaring that this was a special occasion, we moved into the dining room. He brought out the fresh bottle of milk which had been standing on its head in the refrigerator so the cream would disperse evenly throughout (back then there was no homogenization, no 2%, no slick cardboard cartons, no lactose-free or soy milk -- just the regular milkman-delivered milk in a regular glass milk bottle, cream rising to the top as things of quality and richness do) two heavy white bowls, two soup spoons, and a fresh, unopened box of Kelloggs Corn Flakes.

There weren’t many choices of packaged cereals in those days. . Rice Krispies were good, although they didn’t exactly snap crackle and pop as advertised. I understood that Wheaties, “The Breakfast of Champions,” was for boys, as attested to by its sponsoring of the radio program “Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy” (we didn’t know from gender neutrality back then. ) The various bran varieties clearly were intended for old folks who seemed to need some help with certain vaguely hinted at bodily functions that had to do with something called “regularity.” Puffed Rice wasn’t bad in a pinch, but my cereal of choice was Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.
I took one spoonful, just to please him. It was delicious! No ad, no singing commercial, (the hot marketing device of the day) could ever describe that heavenly crispness, slightly tenderized by fresh cold milk. Daddy laughed as, finishing my bowl before he was even halfway through his, I asked for seconds.

“You bet, but slow down a little. Your stomach is empty and if you get sick, Mother will really holler at us!” A joke, because we both knew that he was the principal healer in the parental dyad. (Although as I think back, I realize it was Mother who was there while he was at work through long days of whooping and hacking.).
I finished off the second bowl, and then we “retired to the living room” where we sat on the couch, lazily turning our attention back to whatever was on the radio. I dozed off, lulled by the sweet combination of returning health and quiet intimacy with a loved and loving parent. The sound of his gentle snoring woke me briefly. I went back to sleep, waking again to see him looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes that I burst into delighted laughter.

The key turned in the front door lock. There was more laughter as Mother, Cine and Bob burst in, carrying in cold Chicago winteriness with the grocery bags from the A&P. . They all exclaimed about good my color was, how chipper I seemed, how well I had done in Daddy’s care. He smiled a falsely modest smile, and said, “Nothing at all, she was just ready to make the turn around I happened to be here. I can’t take the credit. It was mostly the Corn Flakes that did it.”

“I think you’re good for her,” Mother said.

Indeed, he was.

The Four Letter “C” Word


Ruth Lampert Copyright May 2009


If you are thinking what I think you might be thinking, shame on you. This is a family blog. The word I am thinking is “cute.” As it is all too often applied to older people as in “Look at that couple over there on the bench, holding hands.
. Aren’t they cute?”

If the subjects of this comment were two little children holding hands, it would be appropriate. When the reference is to aged people being together, showing affection for one another, it is – well, not so cute.

My attitude might justifiably be ascribed to the fact that I myself am, as my grandson charmingly puts it, “chronologically gifted.” In case you wonder why occasionally I am snarly, argumentative, bossy, nasty, querulous, or all of the above, it is because I know that these attributes will not lead to my being described as “cute.” “Cute” goes with “sweet.” I prefer “tart.”

Other adjectives that go nicely with advanced age are “regal;” “dignified;” “inspiring;” “stately”.
“Humble?” Not so much.

Nothing brings out the cute card faster than weddings of older people. Wedding ceremonies that is. A quiet, inconspicuous marriage at city hall or in a clergyperson’s office can escape the appellation, but let there be traditional trappings such as long gowns, a flower girl, a fancy wedding cake, and I can hear it now:
“Oh, isn’t that adorable!”
Toddlers toddling down a make believe aisle, dressed up in grown-ups cast-off clothing, make a poor second in sickening sweetness.

Funerals, on the other hand, by their very nature escape the label. A cute corpse is, if not exactly an oxymoron, a rarity.
Many clichés apply, the favorite being “he/she she lived a full life” but while that aged body in the coffin may be many things, it is not “”adorable.”
If it’s all the same to everybody, I would prefer not to have to wait until my demise to be spared the “cute” word. So to all you medical personnel who say things like “just climb up here sweetie,” and salespeople who coo “Oh, you look just precious in that” and restaurant servers who advise “That is really easy to digest, honey” and so forth and so on, I recommend use of a c-word I particularly favor, as in:

Cut the Crap.